


E/R Christmas Drabble

by poppunklwt



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Sweaters, also more tags to come as i write more lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:59:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppunklwt/pseuds/poppunklwt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much a small collection of the Christmas-themed Enjoltaire drabbles I've been writing lately. All were requests sent into my Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Shopping

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! I was bored the other day and asked my followers to send me in Christmas-themed Enjoltaire prompts for short fics. So, as I complete the requests sent in, I plan on posting them here. If you like what you see, please feel free to send in a request of your own, my ask is always open! (radcourfeyrac.tumblr.com)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Words can't explain how much I appreciate that.

**Request:**   _enjolras doesn't really like christmas and grantaire manages to convince him that christmas is more than just a capitalist date of consumption_

❅

Somehow, Enjolras has managed to rope Grantaire into Christmas shopping with him. (This only added fuel to the already-forged fire, somehow, giving Courfeyrac even more reason to shout “Whipped!” at Grantaire whenever he found it necessary.)

Grantaire thought he may as well go, knowing fully well just how much Enjolras detested shopping in general, Christmas shopping even more so. So, why not be the bigger person and help a friend, right?

It turns out Grantaire actually had  _no idea whatsoever_  what exactly he was getting himself into.

By the time they’re hardly two steps through the front door of their local mall, Enjolras has a firm scowl etched onto his features as his eyes immediately dart around towards the elaborate festive displays and signs taped to storefront windows proclaiming 50% off sales. (Well, really, his scowl has been there ever since they’ve left the apartment and gotten into the car to get on their way. According to Courf, Enjolras is the “master of resting bitchface.”)

It stays like this for a while as they meander their way around the building, stopping every few minutes to pop inside one store only to leave less than ten minutes later, empty-handed.

Grantaire knows fully well that they haven’t accomplished  _anything_ so far.

And Enjolras is still scowling.

❅

It’s around three in the afternoon now, and they’ve made some progress. (Emphasis on the word  _some_.)

Grantaire insisted that they stop by the food court for a quick bite to eat, hoping that the prospect of eating something would temporarily distract Enjolras from whatever weird funk he was in. And, besides, Grantaire was just hungry.

They’re both hesitantly dipping their fingers into the large cardboard carton of fries that they ultimately chose to share, Enjolras rifling through the shiny plastic bags filled with their purchases thus far, his eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

So far, they’ve picked up a brand new box of freshly-sharpened colored pencils for Jehan, some weird book about aliens and conspiracy theories or whatever for Combeferre, and basically a shit-ton of candy for Courfeyrac. (Literally, candy was an _actual item_ on Courf’s Christmas wishlist.  _Fucking candy._ )

Grantaire arches an eyebrow at Enjolras’ frantic actions, shoving one last fry into his mouth. He doesn’t want to question it.

But, he does, because, you know, he sort of hates himself and having an extremely stressed out Enjolras slit his throat is exactly how he likes to spend his days off.

“You okay, Enj?” he begins cautiously, speaking slowly and treading around his words carefully.

Enjolras doesn’t respond at first, he just sort of sighs audibly and finally sets the few items back into their respective bags. And then, in a final act of utter frustration, he hunches over (super uncharacteristic, considering how oddly perfect Enjolras’ posture typically is) and places his face into his hands.

“No,” is his muffled response. “I hate shopping. I hate Christmas. I hate thinking about it and… I just  _despise_ it.”

Well, that was almost achingly obvious. He’d been pouting all day and only now has Grantaire managed to wrench any fathomable response out of him.

“Well, bah humbug to you, too,” Grantaire mumbled under his breath, perhaps louder than he’d intended.

“Come on, Grantaire, I—,” Enjolras began, and then halted in his tracks. “Be serious.”

“I am being serious.”

“No, you’re not. And what I mean is Christmas nowadays is just loads of capitalistic bullshit intended to brainwash the masses. ‘Buy this’, ‘buy that.’ That’s all it is. It’s all the money. Of course I like doing nice things for my friends, but that’s all it is.”

 _Ah_ , Grantaire thinks.  _Of course._  Not to say he didn’t at least partly agree with Enjolras—because he certainly did agree that Christmas has become such a source of income for big business. But that didn’t necessarily entail Christmas no longer having any substance or meaning whatsoever. Grantaire was famously pessimistic, but he admittedly still had an ounce of Christmas spirit within him.

“Okay, I get that,” Grantaire responded (to which Enjolras nodded firmly and looked appreciative). “But… I mean, just because all these huge corporations are draining millions from the public doesn’t mean the true meaning of Christmas has completely dissipated. You know?”

“And you’re saying this to me while we’re in a mall. Shopping.  _Christmas shopping_ ,” Enjolras said pointedly.

“Forget about that. Just forget about it. Christmas is all about giving,” Grantaire retorted immediately, vaguely aware of how he’s beginning to sound slightly like a Hallmark greeting card. “And shouldn’t giving to your loved ones be worth  _way more_ than whatever amount of money you’re paying for it? Honestly, even if you happen to spend more than you’d like to on presents, that’s still a massively small percentage of the income the corporations are raking in this season.”

Grantaire hopes that he’s just ended it then and there, and for a while, it seems that he does.

Enjolras suddenly is out of words to say, for once in his life.

❅

Grantaire believes he can consider this mission a success.

They’re driving home to the apartment now, and the trunk of Grantaire’s car is now filled nearly to the level of bursting with gifts for all their friends. Following Grantaire’s little “intervention”, Enjolras seemed a bit more enthusiastic about the “season of giving” rather than insisting it be called the “season of the evils of capitalism.”

Though, Enjolras is admittedly still rather silent; Grantaire’s entirely sure that he even dozed off in the passenger seat at some point.

 _Better silent than angry_ , he thinks.

Once they get back to the apartment, Enjolras’ eyes are watery due to yawning pretty much ten times after being awoken and his curly mess of blonde hair is in its most disheveled state. He retreats back to his room wordlessly to do what Grantaire assumes is take a nap.

“Someone’s tuckered out, huh.” Courfeyrac peeks his head up, raising it from Combeferre’s shoulder as he quietly reads next to him on the couch.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says with a wavering laugh. Now that he thought about it, he was feeling just a bit drowsy himself, but that was nothing a quick cup of coffee couldn’t fix. “I guess I tired him out.”

“Apparently so.”

❅

It’s probably an hour or two later when Enjolras peers out his propped-open bedroom door, his hair still ruffled, to summon Grantaire in to speak with him for a moment. (“Grantaire’s finally getting laid tonight!” “I am literally going to shove that huge book Combeferre’s reading up your ass.”)

So, Grantaire heads in, only daring to stand underneath the doorframe. He’s not going to deliberately intrude if Enjolras needs only to speak with him for a second. “What did you need?”

“You can come in, you know.”

“Okay.”

Grantaire is now sitting on the very edge of the unmade bed while Enjolras paces around, rifling through his drawers and his closet seemingly attempting to locate something. Grantaire doesn’t really know what to do with himself while this is occurring, so he just folds his legs and clasps his fingers together on his lap.

“Ah, found it.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say, because standing right before him, is Enjolras, holding a somewhat-messily wrapped gift with a shiny red bow on top out to him in an expectant, enthusiastic manner.

“I hope you don’t mind early Christmas gifts,” Enjolras remarked as Grantaire gently took the package from his hands. “I… I thought you only deserved it, you know, after what you told me today. Totally changed my attitude.”

Grantaire is grinning broadly before he’s even torn the wrapping paper off. Because, really, the thing is so  _poorly wrapped_. It looks like it was done by a sticky-fingered six year-old. It was totally uncharacteristic of Enjolras—he was such a perfectionist and seemingly so good at everything he dabbled in, so he would’ve expected that his gift wrapping skills would be immaculate.

He was  _so_ wrong.

“Wait,” Grantaire adds finally, stopping himself before he begins to tear the paper off. “When did you buy this? You couldn’t have bought a gift for me today. I was with you.”

Enjolras sort of absentmindedly scratches behind his ear as he mutters out his explanation. “You know, despite how much I hate capitalism, I  _had_ to get something for you.”

Enjolras is now bright red, and even more so when the gift is finally opened.

It’s an empty sketchbook. And a nice one, at that—Grantaire had been needing a new one for ages.

“Check the first page.” Grantaire almost doesn’t catch Enjolras mumble that.

As it turns out, the first page is the only one not blank in the entire book. On it is a note, one clearly written in Enjolras’ easily-distinguishable swooping calligraphy.

For once all day, Grantaire is the speechless one.

❅

Neither Courfeyrac nor Combeferre question it when they catch a sight of Enjolras and Grantaire’s limbs tangled up with each other’s in Grantaire’s bed the next morning, the blankets carelessly kicked to the ground.

Jehan owes both of them money now.


	2. Tree Decorating, Cuddling, Sweaters, and Hot Cocoa

**Request:**   _a very smol enjolras in a very tol grantaire's sweater (it goes down to his knees), cuddling and drinking cocoa_

❅

For a lack of better description, Grantaire makes Enjolras feel like he’s the fucking sun.

Because, you know, you tend to feel pretty special if your significant other allows you to borrow their horrendously ugly Christmas sweater.  Even if it does cut off just below your knees because said significant other is  _too damn tall_.

The pair had just hauled in their recently-purchased Christmas tree, their first-ever one for their first-ever Christmas spent together. They wanted it to be special, and yet neither of them were too keen on going too extravagant and their apartment space was limited, so they chose to take home the smallest one among the selection.

So, small, it seemed, could just be special enough.

As soon as they had stepped through their door and discarded their thick winter gear, Grantaire had started a pot of hot water for cocoa and offered the previously mentioned “horrendously ugly (yet extremely warm and cozy and smelled like Grantaire) Christmas sweater” to his boyfriend. As a whole, Enjolras is just brimming with warm feelings—he can’t recall the last time he was this joyous during the holiday season.

As a whole, Enjolras is feeling immensely loved.

❅

They spend the remainder of the afternoon decorating their little tree, sipping hot cocoa, and sharing in each other’s warmth in a tangle of limbs on their couch.

The size of their tree is modest, and it is the same in its decoration. They don’t eat up an awful amount of time covering it from top to bottom with ornaments—they hang some here and there, they string it with one cord of lights and one string of tinsel, and to them, it’s nothing less than perfect. (Of course, there’s a star atop the tree as well for a finishing touch. Grantaire purely insisted on his boyfriend placing the star on top, but of course, with how diminutive in size Enjolras is, he couldn’t reach it. Grantaire had to pretty much hold him up and Enjolras swore he’d pay someday if he were to tell Combeferre or Courfeyrac or any of the other Amis about it.)

Once they’ve finished, they both essentially collapse onto the couch, snuggle up to each other, and simply admire their work wordlessly for a while. To Enjolras, none of this feels really  _real_ : and he’s sure Grantaire feels similarly. It’s almost cliché, really, their current setup (Happy couple prepares for their first Christmas together by buying the perfect tree and subsequently decorating it as a team while sipping steaming mugs of hot cocoa. They finish it off and cuddle up to each other on the couch while _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ plays faintly on the TV in the background).

But, again, neither of them could be happier. It’s pure  _bliss_ , what they’ve got going on right now.

So, Enjolras ponders this as he allows his head to drop onto Grantaire’s shoulder, his eyes fluttering open and shut every few minutes. Grantaire busies himself by placing soft kisses to the top of Enjolras’ head, his paint-stained fingers absentmindedly tangling themselves up in Enjolras’ loose blonde curls. Enjolras is supremely drowsy, and Grantaire’s cozy sweater (well, dress, on him) isn’t aiding in his futile efforts to remain awake.

Grantaire clearly takes note of this, because the next thing Enjolras hears is barely above a whisper; a suggestion; almost an encouragement. “Sleep, babe, if you need to.”

And he does.


End file.
